And with that, Lexie stood up. I grabbed Crawley’s left arm, Lexie’s harmonica-playing driver grabbed his right, and we whisked him through the kitchen and out the restaurant’s back door before anyone knew what was happening.

It was a nasty trick, but there weren’t many things that would get Crawley down those stairs. Lexie had the easy part—lying there pretending to be hurt, but I was the one who had to get him to come out. I’m not much of an actor. In grade school, I usually got roles like “Third Boy,” or “Middle Broccoli,” or in one embarrassing year, “Rear End of Horse.” I had no confidence in my ability to pull this off, but the fact that I was so nervous had actually helped.

By the time Crawley gathered up enough of his wits to realize this was a conspiracy, we already had him in the backseat of the Lincoln. When he tried to escape, I got in his way and closed the door—which was protected by child locks so it couldn’t be opened from the inside.

I won’t repeat the words Crawley shouted at us. Some of them were words I didn’t even know—and I know quite a lot.

“You’re not getting out of this,” I told him, “so you might as well cooperate.”

He turned to Lexie. “What is this all about? Did he put you up to this?”

“It’s my idea, Grandpa.”

“This is kidnapping!” he squealed. “I’ll press charges.”

“I can just see the headlines,” Lexie said.

“Yeah,” I added. “‘Rich Kook Presses Charges on Poor Blind Granddaughter.’ The press will eat it up.”

“You shut up!” he said. “By the time you get out of jail, you’ll have gray hair.”

“Naah,” I said. “I’ll be bald, more likely. It runs in my family.”

The fact that I didn’t seem to care made him even more furious.

By the time we pulled out of the alley we had put a blindfold on him, and he didn’t resist because he didn’t want to see the outside world anyway. He was quiet for a minute, then he said, “What are you going to do to me?” He was truly frightened now. I almost felt sorry for him. The key word here is “almost.”

“I have no idea,” I told him, which was true—Lexie still hadn’t told me what she had planned. She said I’d chicken out if I knew, and so I didn’t press her, figuring she might be right. We rode to Brooklyn Heights—the part of Brooklyn that faced Manhattan right across the East River. Then we drove onto a pier. That’s when I figured out what Lexie had planned.

“Oh, wow,” I said. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“What!” shouted Crawley. “Kidding about what? What is it?” But he made no attempt to uncover his eyes.